


The Perfect Type of a Perfect Pleasure

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Cigarettes, Dirty Talk, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among the neat, chalk-white tipped rows, a single cigarette is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Type of a Perfect Pleasure

"Did you ever smoke?"

John doesn't know where the pack of cigarettes came from. "Sure," he says. They aren't really a hot commodity here, which surprised the hell out of John when he'd offered up one from his stash. Then again, people who take one-way tickets from earth tend not to be the type to need a smoke every ten minutes. Their addictions lay in other directions.

Among the neat, chalk-white tipped rows, a single cigarette is missing.

"Seriously? I don't think I ever would've pegged you for a smoker."

"At bars, or when I'm out," John shrugs. He should sit, probably, join Rodney on the bench where the pack of cigarettes rests, warming it for him. "I like cigars."

"Of course you do," Rodney says, eyes a-rolling once more. "They're thick, taste bitter, and you can work one of those for hours."

It's a damned good thing they're alone, because John knows he's flushing to the roots of his hair. Damn Rodney for just _saying_ things like that. There's no censure, none of the cutting sarcasm John knows how to deal with. Rodney says it like it's fact -- it is, oh, it _is_ \-- and there's no defense against that. Sometimes John doesn't know why he bothers looking for one. "That still qualifies as smoking."

"No, it doesn't," Rodney says. His voice is soft, distant as he looks out over crinkled waves. "That's an indulgence, like drinking three hundred year old scotch after knowing you could be drinking it, but weren't, for months. That's something you do to show how much better you are than everyone."

Or maybe John just _likes_ cigars. But Rodney's not wrong, either. John's father had three bottles of scotch that were opened at weddings, funerals, or after a particularly savvy business success. He'd hated cigars.

"Smoking, being a smoker," Rodney continues, "that's like buying a six pack of the cheapest swill you can find every night and thinking it's fresh from a microbrewery. It's wine that tastes like vinegar and comes from a box. You don't do it because it tastes good, because it looks pretty filling up the glass or makes you look good sucking it down. You do it because you can't _not_."

Finally, John's legs work again. He pushes the pack to one side -- away from Rodney, half-sitting on them with preemptive intent -- and leans back so their shoulders touch. "You smoked? Actually polluted that precious brain of yours with nicotine?"

"Red Bull hadn't been invented yet, and I had to get through grad school somehow." The cigarette looks natural in between Rodney's first and second fingers. It's easy to imagine the skin stained yellow, hardened from chemicals and long use. "When I graduated I was smoking a pack a day."

"I've got a lighter, if you want." He has one. He doesn't want to get it. The image of Rodney -- skinny and frenetic with youth, heavier with age and responsibility, doesn't matter, can't matter since they're both so Rodney -- smoking, head tipped back in shadows but for a cherry glow, cheeks sucked, showing off the lines of his face, framed with sparks and that heavy, clinging smoke... John's mouth goes dry, stomach roiling, unsure if the image is hot or repellent. 

Or both.

Rodney would be damned hot, smoking. Most men are. It's in the pose, the poise, daring and dangerous just with a bit of tar burning between their fingers, dirtying their mouths.

Nancy had smoked. It'd been a useful excuse, towards the end.

When Rodney speaks, it's sudden and abrupt. "No. No, I don't think so." His hand is heavy, damp with sweat that John tries hard not to label, smearing against the back of his neck as Rodney presses, just a little. "But I want to watch you. You look so hot."

John licks his lips, heat born of Rodney's expectant palm sliding down his spine. "You've never seen me do that." His voice is hoarse. How can it be hoarse when he feels like he's about to drown in his own wanting?

"Come on," Rodney presses. "I want to see your mouth stretched so wide and pink. Show me, John, I want to see it."

John's fought against orders all his life. It doesn't matter how prettily they were couched, how direct their application -- he'd hated (fought, bucking like a horse afraid of the sharp edges of a bit) each and every one.

Except here. Except now, with Rodney, who orders him around like he's nothing but a robot, unfeeling and unfazed, and god, if it doesn't send John _skittering_ to obey, body already trembling, heat swelling between his legs. John licks his lips again, his teeth, and tries to keep his shoulders up. Tries to remember how to hate this.

"I know why you never smoked," Rodney says, offering it like a gift. Or maybe it's a goad.

Or maybe it doesn't matter.

John melts. There's no other word for it, not even inside the confines of his own skull. He _melts_ , bending at the waist, ass squeaking against the bench so when he finally connects, he can nuzzle his way across Rodney's thighs, against his hips, scratching his face with uniform pants while heat bleeds all over both of them.

Rodney exhales slowly, the sound of it almost enough to cover the plume of white John pretends he doesn't want to see. "Yes. No, wait, let me -- "

John almost bites the hand that drives into his view, but Rodney just shoves his head away. He wanted to do that, dammit. He _likes_ doing that, showing off skill guys who look like him aren't supposed to have. Normally Rodney's appreciative, too, but already he's starting to breathe hard, impatient, and just like that, John is, too.

"Come on," Rodney says again, curling his hand back where it's supposed to be, on John's neck. "I want to _see_."

It's dark enough that neither of them can really see anything. But John still shifts obligingly, balanced on one free hand a knee as he tips his head to one side, leaving space so Rodney can watch: his mouth, stretched enough that it burns, just a little, as he slides Rodney inside and works all the way down; the tension of his neck, muscles working tense, relax, tense, relax; the bunch of his shoulders as he works up and down, sucking slow and steady on the cock in his mouth.

"This is why," Rodney whispers, thready and cracked. "You wouldn't just smoke, you'd _love_ that damned cigarette. It wouldn't be the smoke or the nicotine, no, oh no. You wouldn't care about that. But the filter in your mouth, holding it there until it singed your tongue -- that's what you'd want. You'd never want to take it out, just like now. If you could, you'd sleep with a dick in your mouth."

He moans. He can't _not_ when Rodney gets like this, his words coming out like satin in a voice wobbling with lust, his body still and calm in direct contradiction. And because Rodney's right. Every word is true -- John's never let himself seriously consider smoking because he'd always known.

"You're such a cocksucker," Rodney says, completing John's thought. "Why have nicotine when you can have _dick_ , hot and hard, filling your throat and fucking your face."

Normally, John would pay attention to the details. He'd swirl and tease the head, maybe nip right over the slit just to see Rodney jump. He'd flick his tongue against the thick, heavy veins he loves so much, finding each satiny-smooth ridge and offering the private touches he's so painstakingly worked out.

But that's when Rodney wants a blowjob. A real one.

It's not what he wants now.

He pulls off with a pop. Slithering to the floor hurts his knees, but he ignores it, ignores everything because Rodney is standing and John knows the perfect angle, had measured it out after he'd realized this wasn't just a one-time thing. Settled, he mouths after Rodney's cock, frantically shoving his pants down further because he wants to touch, too, and maybe that doesn't fit into Rodney's construct of John as a smoker, but he doesn't care. Or maybe it does, John doesn't know.

When Rodney's cock slides in, it slides all the way in. John whines, deep in his throat where Rodney is already, eyes fluttering as he concentrates on the timing, on figuring out the rhythm -- fast, frantic, Rodney's so turned on -- trying not to choke or gag. He doesn't always manage it, but Rodney moans loudest then, and John can always, always breathe. It becomes a game, John sucking and greedy, nursing Rodney's cock, while Rodney fucks his face like a back-alley whore's.

"This is what you want." Rodney's panting, now, rucking up John's hair as he holds his head still. "Look at you, eyes closed, chin wet. Giving you a cigarette would be a tease, a snatch of tune you'd follow around until you fell on your knees, just like this. Oh, god, John, take it, please, I love the way you _take it."_

That, too, is a game. John doesn't have to shudder and go still and pliant whenever Rodney touches him with intent, but he does -- he likes it, big hands pushing and positioning him, rubbing up and down his flank, his side, petting him as they kiss or talk. It doesn't matter, because Rodney isn't really into this the way John is, but he knows John _is_ and that's enough.

"Come first, touch yourself, I wanna -- " Rodney's babbling now, lost in each sharp, deep thrust. John ignores the words, concentrating on the tone instead. He cups Rodney's balls, holding them, warming them as bounce against his chin, growing tighter and higher until there's a familiar warble.

It's completely quiet when Rodney comes.

He swallows, savoring the taste of it -- bitter, just like Rodney had said.

Rodney's cock is licked clean before John tucks it away, zipping Rodney's pants with his fingers. He's still annoyed he didn't get to open them with his mouth.

"You didn't come," Rodney says. He's pouting as much as a man blissed out from orgasm can pout. John looks closely: his eyes might actually be spinning.

John's pants are obscenely tented and streaked with wet. "No," he says. "Not yet."

"Okay?"

He thinks about it as he pushes to his feet, into Rodney's space and kisses him slowly. Rodney's greedy, like always, sucking on his tongue like _he's_ the one with an oral fixation.

John was offered his first cigarette when he was thirteen years old. It came along with his first cock, but he never seems to remember the former. Timmy had been so shocked that John wanted to suck _his_ cock, instead of the other way around.

"I wanna watch you smoke that," John says, nodding at the cigarette, bent and mangled on the bench. The pack is similarly squashed, but John figures one is salvageable. "I want to jack off while you do."

Rodney's breath catches -- John's _dick_ catches, a reaction hard-wired from the very beginning -- and he nods eagerly. "I get to watch?" He's as eager as a child.

There should probably be questions about how seriously Rodney's nicotine addiction was, and what one cigarette is going to do to him, but the way Rodney's looking at him has nothing to do with the request to smoke. It's all about John's face, flickering over his chest, his hips, centering on the cock visibly delineated by blue-grey pants. That's what Rodney wants. Everything else is just... prop.

John kisses him again, cupping his face and sucking on his tongue, his lower lip, as wet and warm as he can offer. "You'll have to brush your teeth after, but. Yeah. You can watch."


End file.
